


Filthy, Decadent Brutes

by Byacolate



Series: Due Influence [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, or Terrible Awful No Good Very Bad Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric bemoans fresh air and greenery nearly as often as Dorian does. He thinks Cassandra is secretly keeping a tally to hold against them at a later date. At least he assumes she is; that's what he'd do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filthy, Decadent Brutes

**Author's Note:**

> I never intended for this to happen. It sort of just slipped out. Like a bad joke. 
> 
> Spoilers for Bull's personal quest.

“I‘m not made for the wilderness,” Dorian mutters, staring despondently out over the endless sea of trees. “I‘m more... taverns and big cities.”

 

The look on Adaar‘s face is fondly amused as he reaches out to swipe his thumb over the corner of Dorian‘s mouth and that is - that is Freeman blood on his face. Marvelous.

 

“Anyone have a hot towel?” he asks miserably. Varric chuckles from the other side of a pile of corpses as Cassandra checks their pulses, one by one. As though any of them could have survived a bolt in the eye, a broadsword to the spine, or an endless barrage of lightning.

 

“Fresh out,” Varric says, tucking Bianca back over his shoulder.

 

“Then what _did_ I bring you along for?”

 

“Boss needed a clever, dashing one to come along for morale.” Varric nudges a charred hand a little farther away by the toe of his boot. “Every merry band of misfits has one. I‘m in high demand.”

 

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust that Dorian isn‘t even remotely tempted to believe may be directed at the pile of mangled corpses at her feet. Varric winks at her, and her lip curls. Not for the first time, Dorian considers making certain implications regarding the heated nature of their relationship, but his heart just isn‘t in it at the moment.

 

“This is hardly the time and place for your... whatever that is. Unless the stench of death does it for you.”

 

His heart doesn‘t need to be in it for these things to fall out of his mouth, apparently.

 

“Speak for yourself,” Varric snorts, tilting his chin up toward Dorian. Or the Inquisitor. Or the Inquisitor‘s hand where it still rests on Dorian‘s person.

 

“I think I‘d rather speak for you, if you get to be the clever, dashing one.”

 

Cassandra approaches Adaar and he draws his hand away then to give her his full attention, which means he is no longer a pleasant distraction for Dorian in the midst of all this... _nature_.

 

Solas would adore the Emerald Graves, Dorian thinks - that, or he‘d loathe it for some nigh-incomprehensible tetchy elvhen reason. Either way, it would be much more his speed than Dorian‘s. Or indeed Varric‘s, who bemoans all this fresh air and greenery nearly as often as Dorian. Dorian thinks Cassandra is secretly keeping a tally to hold it against them at a later date.

 

At least he assumes she is; it‘s what he‘d do.

 

Vivienne might not enjoy traipsing about in the dirt, but she has a keen eye for fine Orlesian villas, and the most uncanny talent for setting red templars ablaze from the inside out with a single flick of her wrist. The finesse of a bloody goddess.

 

Regardless, there are those far more suited for these jaunts about Thedas than he. He tells Adaar as much long after they‘ve set up camp, when the sun has begun to sink into the lush green horizon. It is quite vexing that he must stand and watch the disgustingly gorgeous display of nature at Adaar‘s side, never mind that it was Dorian‘s choice to seek him out along the rocky ledge in the first place.

 

“You always say that,” Adaar says, the amusement in his voice thick enough to cut with a knife. He doesn‘t finish the thought until Dorian levels him with an expectant look. “And yet.”

 

“Going to be clever, are you? Or die trying.”

 

“You tend to get a little...” He squints out over the horizon, deep thought written in the tightness of his brow. “... Affronted... when I bring anyone along in your stead.”

 

“Affronted?”

 

“Offended.”

 

“Offended!”

 

“Indignant?”

 

“You‘re just describing how I feel _now_.”

 

Adaar finally gives Dorian the full attention he‘d been paying to the wretchedly stunning sunset. A place for everything and everything in its place, as it were. A warm breeze drifts through the trees and tousles Dorian‘s hair, rich with the scent of soil and life. Dorian cannot stand it, but it brings something out in Adaar that the colder south does not. He looks content in the Graves, at peace in some unfathomable way. Perhaps if they had not been assaulted by at least three different factions of the Inquisition‘s enemies in a single day, it might be easier to comprehend.

 

Fortunately, he has long since given up the notion of understanding Adaar like he could be squared away in a neat little box of concepts.

 

“Where would you prefer to go, instead?” Adaar asks, leaning back against the rocky alcove. His horns scrape against the stone, the sound making them both wince. When he tilts his head forward, Dorian sighs.

 

“What a pointless question,” he tuts. “Wherever I might prefer to be would be a thousand miles from anything more dangerous than a bad case of sunburn. In other words, the sort of place Cassandra would never let you go.”

 

“I wasn‘t asking about me.”

 

“If only you were sly enough to go fishing for all of this sugary nonsense,” Dorian grumbles, half to himself. “That isn‘t the point, you great body-pillow of a man. A holiday would be utterly spoiled by my nervously pacing the length of some distant tropical oasis. The kind of danger you'd get yourself into without me... the thought makes me shudder.”

 

“As I recall, you didn‘t particularly like the Forbidden Oasis either.”

 

Dorian narrows his eyes and Adaar laughs, nothing quiet or private, but something their companions can probably hear back at camp. He hopes it doesn‘t rouse any nearby hostiles who might ruin this moment, as much as it seems to be at Dorian‘s expense.

 

Adaar‘s fingers tuck into the belt at Dorian‘s waist and tug him closer, a gentle, imploring smile on his lips.

 

“Oh, are we finished teasing the Tevinter? Too bad - I was finally starting to enjoy it.”

 

“I‘m sorry,” he says, and almost sounds it. “I didn‘t mean to challenge your mantle. You can go back to teasing the Vashoth as much as you like. It‘s a little strange to be on the other end of that arrangement.”

 

“Totally unnatural,” Dorian agrees, “unless we‘re talking about an entirely different breed of teasing. Then by all means.” He slips his own hands under the leather of Adaar‘s armor, palming the soft cloth over his chest. “Tease away.”

 

“I think I‘ll leave that to you, as well.”

 

“Probably for the best. You‘ve got enough on your plate as it is. You could entrust me with this at the very least.”

 

Dorian closes his eyes when the next breeze rolls by, and though the kiss that occupies his mouth isn‘t unexpected, it makes him shiver all the same.

 

(They are, in fact, set upon in the middle of the night by a band of Freeman stragglers who aren‘t anywhere near as quiet as they should be, if stealth was indeed among their intentions. It is difficult to stealth murder a small troop of ex-mercenaries, soldiers, and dashing young men in possession of great arcane power who become infinitely more skittish in the middle of the bleeding woods.

 

 

Sure, maybe a tent goes up in flames. Maybe it‘s their tent, and maybe it‘s because said handsome young mage has something of an itchy finger when it comes to hearing the distinct sound of several blades being unsheathed so close to his head. Maybe it‘s because in a moment of panic, he acts before his brain can process anything beyond _sharp pointies_ and _defend, protect, destroy_. And maybe once the Freeman have all been well and truly torn apart by arcane energy, the virile, heroic, very very naked mage ducks behind the towering form of his Inquisitor and demands to return home now “ -yes, _now_ , I can see it‘s the middle of the night Cassandra. With pointless observations like that, it‘s no wonder you aren‘t the discerning one among us. That title is mine, though I am happy to share it with whichever of you accompanies me _out_ of this _dreadful_ place.”)

 

* * *

 

The body pits in the Exalted Plains are just the icing on the proverbial barren wasteland cake, and Dorian would ask why Adaar never takes him anywhere nice if he didn’t look so withdrawn. It is no mystery why because, well. Body pits. 

 

It’s not as though they haven’t seen worse, but Dorian isn’t completely unsympathetic. Sera looks downright disgusted, and Blackwall’s face is a somber affair. Neither of them look away when Adaar lights the first body pit, but Dorian isn’t watching anything but Adaar’s face. It is twisted, jaw tight, the corners of his eyes pinched and pained. 

 

They _have_ seen worse, but nobody would know it if they’d seen such a helpless expression on the Inquisitor’s face.

 

“There will be more,” Blackwall says after the Inquisitor sounds the horn. His eyes are on the horizon as they await reinforcements. 

 

“We should go find them,” Adaar agrees hoarsely, sweat still dripping down his face and neck from the heat of the flames. A dry breeze rolls by, carrying with it the scent of burnt flesh and dead earth. Dorian’s stomach churns uncomfortably. They await his order to move on, which doesn‘t come until their people have moved in and been briefed in full. Dorian knows masochism well, and it doesn‘t suit Adaar at all.

 

With no complaint from Blackwall or Sera, and Dorian too distracted by someone else‘s discomfort to call attention to his own for once, Adaar pushes them on to the next camp to repeat the process all over again. If he‘d thought knowing what to expect from the first time would have made the second a little easier, he was mistaken. 

 

When Adaar lights the fire, Dorian opens his mouth to suggest they stop for camp, and an errant breeze wafts a thick cloud of dark smoke into his lungs. The resulting coughing fit that interrupts him allows Dorian an extra moment to think, and he takes that moment to consider leaving the job only half done. He thinks about dragging the miserable experience out for a second day, and reconsiders.

 

At least the spasms in his chest and the rattle in his lungs gives Adaar the opportunity to shift his discomfiture into concern. It’s probably a better place for him to be - comfort in the familiar.  


 

When they reach the third encampment, Dorian nudges Adaar’s shoulder once the barrier is down, and lights the fire in his stead.

 

Making camp that night is a quiet affair. Even Sera has no appetite, which Dorian would normally take as an apocalyptic omen indeed. It doesn’t help matters that being away from the Freeman massacres makes Adaar look no less worse for the wear. He stares blindly into the fire, politely declines all offers of food, and doesn’t seem to notice when Blackwall and Sera turn in for the night. Dorian waits until the officers fan out on patrol of the area before he nonchalantly hums, examining his nails, “You really should say when something bothers you. I should know; I do it constantly.”

 

Adaar finally looks away from the fire, blinking down at Dorian with a furrow in his brow. His vision’s probably spotty, if he can see Dorian at all. 

 

“Today was unpleasant,” he says, no beating around the bush for him, “but we all had to go through with it.”

 

“All the more reason! We can all commiserate. There‘s nothing more unifying than everyone sharing a common feeling of disgust. Team building at its finest.”

 

“It had to be done.”

 

“I’m not disputing that. And naturally, you’re the only one who could do it, too. It just all falls to you, doesn't it - even the burden of keeping all your feelings wrapped up in a tiny little ball to fester inside you. Sounds healthy. Almost as healthy as staring down a roaring fire.” 

 

Adaar cracks a little smile then, and Dorian’s going to chalk that up to a success. 

 

“You don’t actually want to talk about why I’m unsettled by mass graves.”

 

“Maker, no. I just assumed it was because you’re not a deranged sociopath.”

 

When he tilts into Adaar’s shoulder, Adaar leans back.

 

“I don’t like the Exalted Plains,” he confesses so quietly that Dorian might not have heard him if he wasn’t listening. But he is. He so rarely gets the opportunity.  


 

“Well,” he sighs, resting his head upon Adaar’s shoulder, “that makes four of us.”

 

 

* * *

  
  


He feels like a spitting cat, hackles raised, teeth on edge. Qunari tend to have that effect on him - even the short, elven ones.

 

Bull is different, or at least different enough. Perhaps it wasn‘t so at first, but became so over time under the unifying presence of the Inquisition. If Dorian were of a mind to get in touch with his empathy, he might have taken note that Bull seems no more comfortable than Dorian himself in the presence of his brethren.

 

Adaar is no Qunari, not in the sense that means anything to the followers of the Qun. It helps, too, that on their first meeting, Adaar had come to his aid upon request, and decidedly had not rushed at him with anything sharp and pointy. A first for Dorian.  


 

Enormous, horned grey-skinned men and everything they believe once instilled nothing but dread in Dorian‘s heart. Now he shares one‘s cause and his bed, and the only dread in his heart is for what may happen should Adaar‘s monumental burden prove too to bear much in the end.

 

The elf - Gatt, Bull calls him - rubs him the wrong way. Dorian knows well his countrymen‘s faults; to hear of them from foreigners is amusing at best, harmlessly annoying at worst. But to stand before a man who would have happily slaughtered him on sight had the tenuous thread of alliance not connected Dorian to the Inquisition... the reality of his position is not lost on Dorian. He knows what they are here to accomplish, as well as he knows he‘s been trusted to behave himself on a mission where perhaps the Inquisition‘s most powerful alliance is at stake. He loves and resents Adaar for bringing him to face the people _his_ people have warred against for ages - and the irony that they seek to unite in the name of peace would be funnier if the man Dorian slept with wasn't busy making friends with a man who would be happy enough to strike Dorian down where he stands.

 

 

Dorian wants to bring about change, but improving relations with the Qunari has never been at the top of his list, for reasons that hinge entirely upon self-preservation.

 

He looks to the Inquisitor for support when he turns his back on the elf to face Dorian, and feels a little chastened for it when Adaar reminds them both that neither side is in a place to cast stones. He is right - of course he‘s right - but a part Dorian wishes Adaar had come to his defense all the same. He might not have known a relationship of such depth before, but he's read books. Lots of them. Most had quite callously led him to believe that people just naturally chose sides with their partners, for better or worse.

 

Dorian does not provoke Gatt with anything but his presence, and still that is enough for him to needle Dorian, to ask inflammatory questions he knows will spark a reaction. He wants Dorian to bite back, to give him any reason to wipe the earth of one more Tevinter. It will never be enough for him, and Dorian knows that. He was there to hear Adaar‘s questions as Bull prepared his men, knows that for Gatt, no Tevinter will ever be innocent. They all deserve to feel the pain that he suffered at the hands of a cruel system, a system Dorian himself benefited greatly from.

 

Dorian knows this, just as he knows it is an important alliance for the Inquisition, for Adaar. He does not rise to the bait. If Dorian excels at anything, it is deflection from antagonism.

 

“You know nothing of fear,” the elf growls at one of Dorian‘s pithy remarks, and it is no idle threat. No threat at all, perhaps, except in the unspoken promise that one could be made, and not lightly.

 

 

Every man has his limits, and concerning Qunari, Dorian can always find that edge nearby.

 

He doesn‘t reach for his staff, his fingers don‘t even twitch for it, but there is a storm building in his chest he wants so very, very badly to set free. “And do you intend to teach me?” he asks quietly, razor-sharp ice belying his words. Dorian can see Adaar‘s shoulders stiffen where he scouts just ahead, and thinks, _good_. For all his empathy, the enmity between Tevinter and the Qunari must have seemed far-removed to him, even after Dorian‘s stories. Even being of the Qunari descent. Even being a mage.

 

Perhaps Dorian is at fault for that. Perhaps when he had spoken of the warring, once upon a great while ago, he spoke too airily. Perhaps he should not have downplayed at the age-old slaughter of both groups unto one another as childish rivalries. At the time his intention had not been to paint an accurate picture of pure loathing - it had been to set Adaar‘s mind at ease. He may not have known the Inquisitor then as he does now, but Dorian can tell a soft heart when he sees one, and he‘d thought it prudent to disallow any notion that Dorian might be less effective, less loyal for his nation‘s bad blood.

 

Nothing comes of the elf‘s misplaced ire, and in the end Adaar is the one to throw the alliance - for the sake of the Iron Bull‘s little band of misfits, no less. It does not soothe Dorian all the way through, but it does give his unsettled sensation of misplacement pause to have evidence first-hand that if it came right down to it, Adaar would throw an entire battalion‘s alliance to the wind for Dorian‘s sake as well.

 

But the anger remains in his belly, a hot, uncomfortable twisted mess, and when they make camp for the night, Dorian extricates himself from the rowdy group to set wards around the perimeter in silence. The treeline is thick, and gives him the peace and relative privacy he needs but doesn‘t want.

 

The wards are set, but he feels like a pretender putting them there. Solas makes the barriers, the wards, takes the measures to keep them safe with intricate bursts of energy. Adaar is the protector who deserves protection most of all, the center of so much power and force and desire to do good. Dorian... well. Dorian is ambitious.

 

He is not in the habit of self-deprecation, but it seems to happen naturally whenever his past interferes with his present.  


 

The offer of a drink extended by Dalish and Krem is tempting, very tempting, and it is because of that temptation Dorian ultimately declines - the deep-night hit on the Inquisitor all those weeks ago forever fresh in his mind when they stop to sleep in the middle of arsefuck nowhere - and retires early.

 

Little serves to exhaust him more than a day spent making himself double the enemy of the Qunari he already was.

 

Witnessing the destruction of a dreadnought and knowing the blame would rest heavily on the Inquisitor‘s shoulders seems to make him more wary than it makes Adaar himself. He‘s stripped the outermost layers of his armor - a gift, crafted for him by Adaar‘s own clever hands in the leisure time Dorian wasn‘t even aware he had - and readies his bedroll for a night of staring at the tent ceiling when Adaar pushes aside the entrance flap and ducks inside.

 

“Are you feeling well?” he asks quietly, though there‘s likely no need; the Chargers are making enough ruckus outside that they barely seem to be able to understand one another, much less Adaar‘s private concerns.

 

Dorian watches him sink to his knees to keep from tearing the top of the tent with his horns. “As well as one can after witnessing the detonation of a potential ally. I might ask the same of you, considering. Oh go on, take off your boots before you come any closer. And that coat. You attract mud like an errant hound.”

 

Adaar shifts onto his backside to comply, and Dorian fusses about with Adaar‘s bedroll too, settling it beside his own. Dorian isn‘t prone to avoidance - not with the Inquisitor. Not truly. He doesn‘t have that luxury when Adaar cuts through even his best attempts at deflection like a blade through water. Not when Adaar always sees right through him. It is easier to be straightforward, though it isn‘t nearly as fun.

 

True to form, just as soon as his leather gloves fall to the ground, Adaar‘s hand comes to cover Dorian‘s bare shoulder. He can feel the ancient, magnetic magic of the Anchor, muffled within Adaar‘s palm like the roar a living creature prowling along the other side of a glass wall. Dorian has seen its power, knows the damage it was built to have wrought and the good it has done instead in the right hands. He has never feared it upon his bare skin in testament to those hands.

 

“Is there something I can do?” Adaar asks.

 

“Isn‘t there always?”

 

Encouraged by the airy retort, Adaar releases his shoulder and lifts his hand to cup the back of Dorian‘s neck.

 

“I didn‘t realize the Qunari representative was going to be so...”

 

“Spiteful?” Dorian supplies. “Wretched? Hostile?”

 

“Antagonistic.”

 

“Clearly you haven‘t dealt with enough Qunari.”

 

“But you have.”

 

Dorian gives up the ghost and finally turns to meet Adaar‘s eyes. “I have,” he agrees. Something in his voice makes Adaar‘s eyes go soft with sympathy. Perhaps he does not understand the intricacies of the weight of this, but Dorian would be a fool to think he does not understand _weight_.

 

“I shouldn‘t have asked you to come,” he says, thumb pressed to the delicate skin behind Dorian‘s ear. “I should have considered more carefully what it may have meant to you.”

 

 

That is and isn‘t the point, and within Dorian‘s chest his irritation spikes.

 

 

“Your diplomacy really is quite vexing sometimes.”

 

 

“Pardon?”

 

 

Turning on his knees, Dorian reaches up, cups Adaar‘s neck in both hands, and grits his teeth to keep from strangling him. “You‘re as pure as spun sugar and twice as sweet,” Dorian hisses, “and it is exasperating. I won‘t have any of your coddling. You brought me because you can hardly stand to be parted from my side, and if you think for even a moment that a few homicidal elves are enough to make me shy away from what that does for my ego, you are sorely mistaken.”

 

 

Adaar opens his mouth to say something doubtlessly dripping with understanding, but Dorian stretches his body up to occupy his mouth before he can get the chance. Just so Adaar won‘t get the ludicrous notion in his head that Dorian wants to continue this conversation here in the middle of the wilderness, he drags him down, down until his free hand braces him over Dorian on the ground. Dorian does that thing with his tongue that always makes Adaar gasp, and slides his hands up to cup Adaar‘s jaw. Holding him in place, Dorian takes Adaar‘s lower lip between his teeth and coaxes him the rest of the way down, his body a welcome weight pressed against Dorian‘s.

 

He releases Adaar‘s mouth with a breath of surprise when Adaar removes his hand from the back of Dorian‘s neck presses it to his sternum, pushing his arched spine out flat against the bedroll.

 

“Undress me,” Dorian demands, hoarse and breathless. Adaar is a deft hand at finding all of Dorian‘s intricate buckles and clasps and undoing them, piece by piece, with methodical patience that Dorian himself does not possess. Before the cool night air can chill Dorian‘s bare torso, Adaar‘s hand has returned to hold him down. Heat is what makes Dorian tremble, sparks and flickers of warmth dancing in his belly and spreading ever outward.

 

There are plenty of ways to deal with stress. Dorian likes this one best.

 

One hand finds its way to a horn, gripping clumsily as the base as Adaar ducks down to nuzzle Dorian‘s throat with his lips. Adaar‘s teeth scrape along a tendon and Dorian‘s eyelids flutter shut. As he mouths his way down Dorian‘s chest, Adaar‘s hand leaves his sternum to rake his nails gently through the hair below Dorian‘s belly button, over the buckle of his belt, and - “ _Amatus_ ,” he breathes when a big hand cups him through his trousers. Adaar kisses the curve of a hipbone with something like reverence.

 

Uproarious laughter and shouts outside the tent make Dorian twitch, and he tugs at Adaar‘s horn for his attention.

 

“‘S much as it pains me to say it,” he breathes, “this really isn‘t the time for teasing.”

 

Adaar squeezes, and Dorian‘s hips cant without his permission. “This isn‘t teasing,” Adaar gentles, kissing Dorian‘s stomach as one deft hand sets to unbuckling the belt at Dorian‘s hips.

 

Dorian presses the back of his hand to his mouth and pants hotly against the skin, quieting the tiny ragged noises Adaar pulls from him with his mouth, his fingers. He can feel his pulse beat in rapid staccato where Adaar’s thumbs indent his inner thighs, rising and rising the closer he comes to crawling out of his own skin. 

 

It isn’t the first time he comes with his trousers bunched halfway to his knees, and it isn’t the first time he’s welcomed a hot mouth around his cock for a bit of reassurance, but it _feels_ different. It might be the dark, soft-eyed look that comes from the lovely man knelt between his legs, who discretely thumbs at a bit of excess at the corner of his mouth before he helps coax Dorian's trousers all the way off when the effort is too much. It might be the horned silhouette his partner casts against the firelit canvas of the tent behind him.  

 

It might also be the way this mighty figurehead of a noble, righteous cause is just as happy throwing powerful alliances to the wind for a friend as he is to indulge Dorian in his tantrums. He seems to do both a little too frequently for comfort.

 

Dorian’s fingers brush over the curve of a pointed ear and up again against the sensitive skin around Adaar’s horns, tugging him down for a kiss - gentler perhaps than the one that came before.

 

“You might have just thrown away your best opportunity to reconnect with your roots,” Dorian yawns, wrinkling his nose at the mud and blood staining Adaar’s tunic as he rolls over to take his place at Dorian’s side. 

 

“No.” Adaar takes the hand that creeps between his legs and locks its fingers between his own over Dorian’s stomach. “I have kin enough here as it is.”

 

It was probably meant in jest, but it warms Dorian’s bitter little heart all the same.

 

“Yes, I think I hear them breaking into a cask now to celebrate their survival in your honor.”

 

“Bull spoils them.”

 

“Oh, yes, Lord Pot. Do continue to reprimand Ser Kettle’s sentimentality.”

 

A short breath of laughter ghosts over his crown. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. A common trait in qunari, perhaps?”

 

Dorian snorts and shifts onto his side, stretching until his toes creep over Adaar’s ankles. “I wouldn’t know, _amatus_. Apparently, I only associate with Vashoth.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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